


Five Times Coulson Said Yes Without Saying It (And Once He Said No)

by jenna_thorn



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See title.</p><p> <i>With a practiced polite smile, Coulson faced the school, the barricaded windows, the milling local police, the FBI on site who glared at him in undisguised hostility, but waited as he’d requested. The idiot inside finished his list with a growled warning that he’d leave in a body bag or not at all.</i></p><p>
  <i>“I’ve got the shot,” Barton whispered.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Grant him his wish,” Coulson answered. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Coulson Said Yes Without Saying It (And Once He Said No)

“Unless you’ve got a guy who can walk through walls, we’re screwed,” the onsite LEO said. “It’s not like he’s standing in an open field showing his antlers. There’s no way to get in to him and he’s blocked the windows.”

Coulson nodded amiably. “Then we continue negotiations until that situation changes.”

The gunman kept piling requests like a kid on Santa’s lap and Coulson listened with half an ear – a helicopter, a bus with fuel to Mexico, food from a local restaurant, Christina Hendricks. No, they wouldn't deliver a high profile hostage, not even in trade for children, but Coulson couldn’t fault his taste in women. His earpiece clicked.

“Moving into position.” Barton’s voice was quiet, but clear.

With a practiced polite smile, Coulson faced the school, the barricaded windows, the milling local police, the FBI on site who glared at him in undisguised hostility, but waited as he’d requested. The idiot inside finished his list with a growled warning that he’d leave in a body bag or not at all.

“I’ve got the shot,” Barton whispered.

“Grant him his wish,” Coulson answered. 

\--::--

 

“Your services are no longer needed, Specialist. You are dismissed.”

Clint nodded and left the room. He wasn’t entirely sure what would come out if he opened his mouth, so he kept it shut for the three steps to the door, the seven steps to the white tiled hall, the fourteen to the elevator. He pressed the down button with exaggerated care, his hands steady and his back straight. The doors opened and he stepped in, turning at footsteps behind him. A junior agent put one hand on the closing door, looked up, went pale, and waved him on. The doors closed. Clint looked down at his own hand and opened it, straightening his fingers, surprised to see white semicircles pressed into his palm. 

He moved with precise steps into the med bay. No one stopped him as he walked to the second alcove and stood between the bed and the wall, looking down. He traced the edge of Natasha’s hand, wiped clean around the tape holding the iv to her wrist, still covered in soot past that. There was dried blood under her fingernails. He could feel the ghost of memory, those fingernails down his back, up his thigh, her finger tips at his jaw, in his hair, behind his ear. He straightened her hand on the cheap blanket. He ignored the murmur of voices, the scuff of approaching footsteps until they were too close. He looked up. Dr. Amir took a step back; Coulson didn’t. 

Clint nodded at the generic manila file Coulson held. “That for me?”

“No.”

Clint blinked, and felt his hand twitch. He rubbed at the back of his waist where a concealed carry would sit if he wore one in the building. “Why not? I am ...”

“I’m not contesting your skill. But you are not taking this file.” He glanced to Amir. “Get him a chair. He’s staying here.”

Clint sat in the chair an orderly brought. He watched her breathe, the tube under her nose steady. He ignored the nurses and Amir as they moved around him, around them, around her. She slept. He stayed by her side, because he wanted to go, wanted to find a rifle with a scope, a crossbow and line of sight, or maybe even move within arm’s reach with a sword, a knife, a five inch blade into Asmirov’s right eye, wanted to end him fast, wanted to take his time, wanted to make it hurt, slicing off unnecessary bits first and then dig deeper until they all became unnecessary, pieces of vital organs cooling on a concrete warehouse floor. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and held Natasha’s hand, careful of the iv and the bandages covering sutures and wounds. 

He waited. Hours passed. She continued to breathe. He sat.

Coulson stood twenty feet away, in the middle of the med bay. He still wore his field suit, seemingly as comfortable in the leather and Kevlar as he was in pinstriped wool and polished shoes. He didn’t approach, didn’t signal, just finished his conversation with Amir, signed something on the ubiquitous medical clipboard, and glanced over. Clint didn’t bother hiding his gaze. Coulson nodded.

Clint rose, kissed Natasha on the forehead, and left. 

\--::--

“No, no, here, taste this.” 

Phil didn’t bother batting the fork away this time, just took it away entirely. “Do not stab me with that thing.” He glanced around, but they were wholly private, due to a combination of wall, a dusty ficus, and general waitstaff disinterest.

“Oh, if I wanted to stab you, I would. Just tell me that isn’t the food of the gods.” Barton grabbed Phil’s wrist and fed himself, closing his eyes in pleasure.

Phil let him take the fork away again and asked, “Do any of those painkillers affect sensory --”

“Shut up and just taste this,” Barton swiped his thumb through the sauce and stuck it in his own mouth, then drew his forefinger through it and held that a fraction of an inch away from Phil’s lips. 

Phil leaned back, away from the table and the shared meal between them. “Harassment and fraternization regu ---“

Clint let his hand drop to the table, smearing sauce into his palm. “Like half the agency doesn’t think Natasha and I are going at it in every coat closet on base.”

“You aren’t?”

“Well, not exclusively.”

“Please don’t give me details.”

“Jealous?”

“Concerned. You are my responsibility, both of you. Given your unique abilities, I can --”

Clint interrupted, “The other half thinks the three of us are.”

Phil didn’t answer, didn’t have an answer. The waitress refilled their glasses perfunctorily and still he sat, silent. Clint finished his dessert, chasing the last of the raisins through the whiskey sauce. Phil didn’t bother pretending to eat. “You’re bleeding through the gauze,” Phil said.

“And isn’t that just painfully symbolic.” Clint rose, pulling his jacket to cover the field dressing. “I’ll wait in the car. Give me the keys.” Phil fished them from his pocket automatically and Clint leaned on the edge of the table. “You’ve pulled shrapnel from my arm and shared a blanket and thrown up on me and know every kill I’ve made, every secret I’ve got. I know your dog’s name was Snoopy when you were twelve and what keeps you up at night and why Fury trusts you with what he can’t bring himself to do. What Tasha and I do, that’s sex, burning off adrenaline, remembering we’re alive and we’re both good with that, but you know about… about stuff I can’t tell her. You haven’t been my… you haven’t been just my handler for years now. Are you going to tell me that this is where you draw the line?”

Phil stared at the table, silent, as Clint limped away.

\--::--

Phil’s shoes made barely a sound on the concrete floor of the underground range. He didn’t bother making more or less as he walked to the far lane. “You haven’t given me an answer yet.”

Clint clipped a second target and sent it out to the edge of the range after the first. “Aren’t you supposed to go on one knee first?” He glanced over with a smirk, but Phil wasn’t smiling. “Oo. I know that face, and since I haven’t blown anything up recently, you’re fresh from a meeting with Stark.”

“Stark Industries is a valu …”

“Stark Industries is the redhead in the killer heels. I mean the Man in the Iron Mask.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Phil answered.

“If we lock him away in the French countryside, can I have his equipment?”

“No.”

“Can I have the redhead?” Clint laid a dozen arrows on the ledge in front of him.

“No.”

“Can I have her heels?” He glanced up to check for a response in his peripheral vision.

Phil blinked and Clint put a happy face in the nearer target. Seven arrows, neatly placed. He grinned. Phil didn’t, but he didn’t have the lines between his eyes anymore.

Phil said, slowly, “If you agree to replace me as liaison to Anthony Stark, I will buy you Louboutins out of my own pocket.”

“I’ll just shoot him first time he pisses me off.”

“That would disadvantageous to our long term plans.”

“You’d better keep him, then.” One two three four five, top point, and back down. 

“No shoes, then.”

“I’ll buy my own Chuck Taylors, thanks. Has he signed on?” Eight more, from the quiver now, out and back, carefully leaving enough space to keep the paper target whole.

“No. Fury’s working on him.”

“Then you don’t need an answer from me. I’m here. Natasha’s here. Yeah, I know, right now she’s in Berlin, but …”

“Goa.”

“Maybe she’ll bring me back a present.”

“Do your own shopping. Is that a star?”

“That’s a smiley face. Why would I possibly be thinking of stars?”

Phil touched his sidearm, then picked up the crossbow, cocking and loading it with practiced efficiency. The bolt didn’t tear through the center point of Clint’s half finished star, but it came close enough. 

“Aw, man, now it hangs funny.”

“Barton,” Phil said, then rubbed his face. “Clint.” Clint set down the bow and thought about the hints he’d picked up, piecing together bits of unrelated stories, the mess in New Mexico, the hacked Army footage, the sudden interest in WWII memorabilia, Tony Stark’s little performance in front of half of Congress. Phil rubbed at the stock of the crossbow with his thumb. “Romanov’s waiting for you, and you’re waiting for her.”

Dumbass, Clint thought. “We aren’t chained to each other.”

“I still don’t want to know about your love life, Barton.”

“Your choice and your loss. And you missed my point. Have you committed to it?” Clint asked.

“Committed is terrifyingly appropriate phrasing,” Phil answered.

“Well, then, you’ve got your answer, don’t you?” 

\--::--

Phil opened his office door and said, “Barton, I’m going to shoot you one of these days.”

“Probably, but not for lurking over your desk.” 

Phil hid his smile. He’d said that line to an empty office more often than not, but when he got a response, the momentary embarrassment of talking to empty air was repaid in full. “You admit you’re lurking?” he asked, as Clint slid into view. 

“Picked up the word from Hill. When did you last eat?” Clint asked. Phil thought for a moment, then decided not remembering was probably a bad sign. Clint laughed at him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He unzipped his duffle to show a collection of plastic lidded containers. 

“You brought a picnic? To my office?”

Clint paused with a bag of pita in his hands. “Did I have a shot at getting you out of it to eat?”

Phil shrugged. “The situation with …the Latveria situation is delicate.”

Clint nodded and balanced the pita on Phil’s keyboard. Phil grabbed it back off, hit ctrl-z and locked the computer before putting the flatbread back down on it with a sigh. Clint grinned. “Oh, yeah, it’s hair trigger, I’ll give you that.”

“Don’t get any clever ideas.” He took the smaller container Clint handed him and opened it to an aromatic punch to the olfactory section of the brain. “Remember Morocco?” He closed his eyes and inhaled again. “And the painted cab?”

Clint snorted a laugh. “With the stuffed camel, yeah. Here, start on the hummus.” 

“We didn’t have hummus in Morocco.” 

“No, just the lamb, right? And burnt coffee.”

“Salted lemons. That was in Morocco.” Phil said. And sand and forged papers and stifling heat and sitting back to back to catnap under a white and orange striped awning on a hot plate of a clay roof while the remnants of the camp they’d destroyed searched for them. He added, “We’ve had burnt coffee almost everywhere.”

“They can’t all be Vienna.” Clint handed him a spoon and balanced a bowl of tomatoes on a stack of files. Phil lifted it, moved the paperwork to the floor, and set down the bowl. “Remember Utah?”

“Which one?” Phil mumbled through a mouthful of lamb.

Clint stared over a ripped chunk of pita smeared with tzatziki. “Burnt coffee. Utah.”

“Ugh, I haven’t forgiven you for that one, you know.” He pulled open his desk drawer and tossed Clint one of the bottled waters he hid there. “To this day, I can’t eat hot wings.”

“Don’t! I’m eating here.” He took another bite, and said, “Remember the rotted bananas?”

They shared as they always did, each with his own spoon, trading the containers back and forth. As they emptied each, Clint nested them and placed them back in his duffel. Phil toyed with the cap to his water, bouncing it against his phone. They sat in comfortable, familiar silence and the minutes on the digital clock ticked away.

“I should let you get back to Latveria,” Clint said, as he rose and shoved the guest chair back to its usual position.

Phil winced, “Please don’t.” Clint stopped, his hand on the door and bag strap over his shoulder. “I mean, yes, of course. I don’t mean to keep you.” 

“I volunteered.”

“You’ve got better places to be.”

“Sure, on my ass on the couch, in front of ESPN.”

“Really?”

“Steve watches baseball. It’s fun to watch him freak out at the beer ads.”

Phil smiled. “For a certain definition of fun.”

“I’ve got low standards,” Clint said, and Phil lost the smile. 

“Oh, so that’s what we’re talking about, is it?” Clint dropped the bag with a muted clatter of plastic and took the two long steps back toward Phil. He reached over the desk and grabbed Phil’s tie. Phil rose to his feet as Clint pulled up, gently, slowly. “I’m here. I’ve been here. It’s up to you.” He waited.

Phil reached out and curled his hand around Clint’s neck, sliding his thumb under Clint’s ear. He drew him forward, leaning as well, so they met in the middle, separated by his desk but joined by a shared meal of lamb tagine and years of coffee, a hundred shared missions and a hundred more quiet conversations to stave off boredom, sleep, loneliness, the dark.

\--::--

The others left the room as Fury crooked a finger at Phil. Phil stared out the window into the middle distance of skyscrapers and concrete and clouds beyond them. Fury let the door close behind Stark and tapped the table.

“You and Barton?”

Phil turned to face him, deliberately wearing his public smile, the one that charmed old women and made him look vaguely befuddled. “Yes?”

“Don’t even give me that look. Is this going to be an issue?” Fury looked, if not worried, then concerned. 

“No,” Phil said.


End file.
